


The Wentz Chronicles

by irolltwenties (Shenanigans)



Category: Roswell New Mexico (TV 2019)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Fluff, M/M, jossed beagle names, unmitigated self indulgence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-31
Updated: 2019-12-31
Packaged: 2021-04-21 08:22:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,440
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22054435
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shenanigans/pseuds/irolltwenties
Summary: Just a couple of ask ficlets about Alex's beagle.
Relationships: Michael Guerin/Alex Manes
Comments: 6
Kudos: 40





	The Wentz Chronicles

20\. “You came to my room at 4am, to cuddle?”

The clatter of paws followed by a solid thump of a body bouncing off a wall was the only warning Alex had before Wentz came barreling into his office. He reacted on instinct, pushing back from his desk with a quick shove and swiveling so that when she launched, he’d catch her. He knew this was necessary; she’d trained him carefully by a steady stream of mistakes. She’d knocked his chair to the side, gotten tangled in the cables under his desk and somehow taken out his entire network, completely missed the mark and launched herself bodily into his filing cabinet, ruined a keyboard by scrambling helplessly half on his desk from where she’d landed, and pulled down a potted plant that had taken his coffee cup with it before it crashed to the floor. This was safer. It had also been easier when she was an adorable five pound puppy with needle sharp teeth, terrible breath, and a fat pot belly. 

She was twenty five pounds of inappropriately placed paws, floppy ears, and determination packed into a stout beagle frame. She was also currently trying to crawl higher than his lap to firmly place herself in optimal face licking position. Alex laughed, tugging her tail lightly to shift her back down to his lap, sighing at the end of his work day and only now noticing the way the entire house had gone dark, the pool of light over his desk the only space still moving. He checked the his watch, biting his lip and flicking his eyes to the office door before looking back at where Wentz was trying to figure out how to fit all of her onto his lap in a puddle of overgrown puppy sprawl. 

The cabin was dark and he could hear the way the spring rains were threatening out further into the plain, the rumble of thunder a soft melody that echoed through the dark. “You came to get me, huh?” He whispered, flopping her ears around her face and bending to push a quick kiss to the top of her head. She ducked, butting her head against his stomach when he stopped, demanding as always. He laughed, low and delighted. “You came to my room,” he glanced at his watch again. “At four am, to cuddle?”

“She’s a terrible retriever.”

“She’s a beagle. They follow and find. Not so much with the bringing back.”

Michael was wrapped in a quilt and the impossible tangle of his curls. He was bare foot and still half asleep, hair piled high on one side as he simple stood in the living room. He was waiting, head cocked to the side and vague waves of impatient exasperation nearly visible in the cant of his hip. “What about you?”

“Me?”

“You going to come to my room at four am, to cuddle?” Michael managed to make something simple and sweet sound filthy. Alex blamed the way his voice sounded raspy and warm when he first woke up. Alex blamed a lot of things, but in reality it was just the effect Michael Guerin had on him. 

“I could be persuaded.” He glanced up from where he was still scrubbing his palms over Wentz’ blocky head.

Michael dropped the quilt and arched an eyebrow. He was persuasive when he needed to be.

**

#26. “Is that my shirt?”

“Is that… is that my shirt?”

“Yes.”

“Why?”

Michael simply gestured to where Wentz was stumbling around the living room, paws catching on the sleeves as she trundled across the small rug. She was halfway out of being a puppy, not quite full grown. She was confused, the fabric of one of Alex’s airforce t-shirts trailing behind her as she tried to wander in a determined line. She’d managed to find a slightly wider stanced waddle. “She didn’t like the cone.” 

Alex plopped onto the couch next to Michael, swallowing at the way this all felt so strangely normal. Michael bobbed a little and leaned back, tossing an arm out along the back of the couch and kicked a foot up onto the coffee table. It was a practiced lounge full of denim clad thighs, broad shoulders, and a welcoming warm body. Alex ducked his head on a small grin, blinking around the way his chest always seemed to go tight at the sight. 

Wentz finally gave up, plopping to sit in the middle of the puddle of gray fabric, epic sadness evident in every line of her stocky little body and the wide round sadness of her eyes. She noised once, a soft little noodle of noise that pulled her muzzle into a little o.

“She’s supposed to wear the cone, Guerin,” Alex managed over the long drawn out warbling howl of dejected beagle sadness.

“Look at her. Fuck the cone.” Michael nodded, reaching a light thumb to stroke over the back of Alex’s neck, sparking a delicious shiver of unbridled need. “She’s a rebel.”

Michael’s voice had dropped low and Alex looked over from where he’d been pointedly watching Wentz and not the salacious sprawl of Michael Guerin on his couch, in his life. Michael was watching him, pointed and direct, mouth half open on a sigh as he turned his fingers, pushing into Alex’s hair like a question.

“You’re a bad influence,” Alex managed, breath hitching as his body answered. His body always answered. 

**

5\. “I would’ve had breakfast ready, but you were sleeping on my arm, and I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I would’ve had breakfast ready,” Michael was whispering, voice low and hushed from somewhere that was not in bed with him. “But you were sleeping,” he continued and Alex let himself laze in rumpled sheets. The morning was stretching into the bedroom, yawning around the blinds on a lazy Sunday. 

No alarms on Sunday. That was their rule. 

Michael was usually up first, heading out to the Salvage Yard to start working through the morning pick up and be prepared for the scrap haulers who would show up just after trash pick up in each part of Roswell. Alex would grumble into following him, blinking blearily at the wall before Michael dropped a soft mouthed kiss to his shoulder. Sometimes, he was even verbal before sunrise. 

“I thought you military people were supposed to be morning folk, Private,” Michael would drawl, the tap of his tongue against Alex’s jaw on the consonants the small reprieve from the tease in his voice.

Michael Guerin was forever amused at him in the mornings. Alex had just learned to deal with it.

“Stop that. You were asleep. On my arm.” Today, Alex was trying to figure out what was happening, brain catching up to the words that carried quietly over the hardwood. Their sheets were a mess, the satin pillow case he’d bought Guerin for his curls last Christmas still warm. “I didn’t want to wake you.”

“I know. I know that’s no excus- please stop looking at me like that.” Alex heard the sound of something frying, the pop of it a slight sizzle under the regular thumping that was Wentz’ tail against the cabinets. Alex’s beagle was white muzzled now, a little slower, a little rheumy eyed. He’d watch Michael lift the old girl into bed with them at night and settle her back on the floor in the mornings. His husband talked to the dog more candidly than he did most people, keeping a running dialogue that he’d sometimes infer the answer to questions.

“Now who’s fault is that?” Michael was muttering. Alex could see it in his mind now, slow smile spreading over his face as he rolled onto his back and sighed into the reality of being awake. Wentz was getting fat. She’d gone sausage shaped and the way Michael was sweet talking her this morning was an indication of who’s fault that was. Michael was probably cooking her some eggs, hopefully no bacon. He could see them from countless mornings of memory. Michael’s curls would be tousled around his face, a few streaks of gray at the temple. He’d be wearing those tortoise shell glasses Alex liked, a pair of jeans, and a small false frown to try and combat the perfect roundness of Wentz begging for food. “Don’t tell Dad.”

Alex sighed and rolled out of bed, pulling on the sock and prosthetic by rote, and closing one eye against the twinge in his back. He took one slow breath before moving the short distance to the kitchen, pausing to lean one shoulder against the doorframe. “Don’t tell Dad, what?”

**Author's Note:**

> based on a series of tumblr ask fics before I knew that the beagle was named Buffy. Can be read as supplemental to the Til the Night series.


End file.
